


Maybe I'll Be Bulletproof

by missmichellebelle



Series: Tropetember [13]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Smut, Superhero Mickey, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There was—there was a man, dressed all in black, and he wore a mask, and he stood up and they shot him, they shot him! And he didn’t stop! He just kept going for them and when all of them were knocked out, he told us to run!”</p><p>“It was terrifying, like, how could someone like that be human?”</p><p>“I mean, yeah, it was pretty scary, but he saved our lives, you know? I’d rather be freaked out by a guy taking like fifteen bullets to the chest than fearing for my life.”</p><p>Just like that, suddenly everyone is talking about the vigilante, only now people are using words like <i>superhero</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I'll Be Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU every day (except for one random day a week where I don't feel like it apparently). If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> So you may have noticed that it's been a full week since I posted a Tropetember fic, and I am _so_ sorry for that. Inspiration dropped, life got kind of crazy, and on top of that, I'm about to start a second job! Hahaha what is free time?
> 
> I still want to do 26 fics in total (I think that's right? 30 days - 4 days off = 26 fics?), so I'm going to try desperately to double-up or something to catch up. I'm, what? Six days behind? Oi.
> 
> So if you have any suggestions, please, please send them my way! I'd much appreciate it. <3
> 
> Thanks to my good friend [Sarah](http://goingtohogwartsinatardis.tumblr.com) for all her help and encouragement on this particular fic. Superhero worlds are hard to build without constant feedback, apparently.
> 
> Hopefully nearly 12k of fic makes up for the lack of fic in the last week at least a little bit. <3
> 
> (Also, gotta admit that I started writing this right after seeing Noel in the new TMNT, so like. Yeah.)

Ian’s not a journalist. He doesn’t even really give a shit about the news, really. Generally, his own life is too busy imploding on itself for him to have the frame of mind to switch his attention to anyone else’s implosions.

What he is is a college junior who is on the path for an English Lit degree he’s still not even sure he _wants_ , who needs an internship to appease his college requirements and a job.

And that’s what lands him at Channel 9 News. Journalism kind of falls into the English degree hat, right? At least, it does enough that his college advisor says it’ll work, and the woman who interviews him for the internship doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. Sure, he could have been an intern at an editing company or something, and he’d certainly had offers. They just weren’t _paying_ offers.

For some reason, Channel 9 is willing to pay him, and Ian won’t look that gift horse in the mouth. After all, how many of his friends and classmates can boast paying internships? (Basically none.)

So yeah, Ian might not give a shit about the news, but it’s not like they send interns out to do reporting or anything. He’s mainly there to get people’s coffee, or run to a nearby restaurant to pick up lunches, and sometimes they ask him to do important things like takes notes during a meeting.

He’s basically a really underpaid PA, but he’s also a 20 year-old without a college degree, so Ian really can’t find it in himself to complain all that much.

*

The only reason Ian knows anything about the vigilante is because he’s quietly handing out the coffee orders he’d picked up on his way to the station. They’re in the middle of a briefing that Ian isn’t really supposed to be a part of, and generally has no interest sticking around for (he has faxing to do), when the reporters start spouting off their pitches for stories.

“Got a few calls and emails from people over the last week about being saved from a mugging,” a guy who’s name Ian is pretty sure is Johnson. Something Johnson. People really like last names here. “All descriptions of the savior say he was dressed in black and wearing a mask.”

“What, like Zorro?” Peters responds with a scoff, and Johnson just shrugs. Ian has noticeably slowed in his weave throughout the reporters, delivering their coffee distractedly as he listens.

“We got a masked vigilante on our hands?” The station manager for Channel 9 is a slickly dressed woman in her late 40s named Eva Hunter, and she’s a little terrifying. But she’d also taken a chance and given Ian his internship position despite him not really being qualified for it. So as scary as she is, Ian is pretty certain that she’s actually kind of awesome. “Any pictures? Video?”

“Blurry video from a cell phone, but it’s hard to see the guy—“

“Or girl!” O’Donald butts in.

“—or girl. It’s dark, they’re all in black. There’s a pretty obvious struggle between them and the mugger, though. Mugger gets knocked out. Our vigilante friend flees without a word,” Johnson explains. Hunter taps her lips and nods thoughtfully.

“Get in touch with the police, see what they have on it, and then get back to me.”

The story doesn’t run that night, or the next, and the vigilante doesn’t come up in any more of the meetings he eavesdrops on. Ian can’t help but wonder why no one is talking about it.

*

And then the bank robbery happens.

It’s like one of those horrible things Ian’s only seen in movies, and the entire station is in a frenzy. He spends most of his shift standing in the office with the others, watching the big TV screen as it covers everything that’s happening. Men with guns, at least two dozen hostages, there’s talk of a bomb possibility, and Ian thinks, _This is why I don’t watch the news_.

That’s when something changes. There’s the sound of gunshots, and screaming, and then it all stops so abruptly that even the reporters fall completely silent. It feels like the entire city of Chicago is holding its breath. Without warning, the hostages start spilling out the doors, and the screens become a blur of action and yelling as everyone tries to understand and explain what’s going on.

“It seems the hostages have been released—“

“As of right now, no hostages have been reported harmed, however—“

“All three assailants were found unconscious inside the building, apparently as a result of blunt trauma to the head—“

“There was—there was a man, dressed all in black, and he wore a mask, and he stood up and they _shot_ him, they shot him! And he didn’t stop! He just kept going for them and when all of them were knocked out, he told us to run!”

“It was terrifying, like, how could someone like that be human?”

“I mean, yeah, it was pretty scary, but he saved our lives, you know? I’d rather be freaked out by a guy taking like fifteen bullets to the chest than fearing for my life.”

Just like that, suddenly everyone is talking about the vigilante, only now people are using words like _superhero_.

*

**MASKED MAN CUTS CITY’S CRIME RATE IN HALF**

**MASKED MAN UNDERMINES CAR THEFT RING**

**WHO IS THE MASKED MAN?**

**MASKED MAN: FRIEND OR FOE?**

**POLICE WARN AGAINST SEEKING OUT THE MASKED MAN**

**‘LEAVE THE CRIME FIGHTING TO THE PROFESSIONALS!’ POLICE CHIEF HAMPTON SPEAKS OUT AGAINST THE MASKED MAN**

**THE MASKED MAN STRIKES AGAIN! SUPERMARKET ROBBERS DETAINED**

**SUPER HEROS? PROFESSOR LEROY TELKIN SPEAKS ABOUT THE POSSIBILITY OF THE MASKED MAN**

**THE MASKED MAN: MAN OR MYTH?**

**ARE WE REALLY SAFE? THE DANGERS OF THE MASKED MAN**

*

Ian feels like he’s in a fucking comic book, or at least a movie adaptation. He actually wonders if the headlines that are running were taken straight from something like that, because they certainly sound like they were. It’s almost laughable.

Except that from every eyewitness report at the bank robbery (and every instance afterwards), people had reported the same thing: the Masked Man is apparently impervious to bullets. There’s speculation on what else he could withstand, if he has super healing and super strength as well, if he’s human at all or another species entirely. There are people who call to have him executed, those who want him to be studied, those who want to turn him into a weapon, and then there are those that are just grateful that he exists (generally the last group is the people he’s actually _saved_ ).

Ian’s not sure which group he falls in, if any. The idea of super powers is kind of… Far-fetched. Even though there are nearly 100 accounts of it now, Ian can’t really _believe_ it. Because how do you believe in something like that? Something that’s the fantasy of every little boy, but that is given up on because no one grows up to be a superhero—it’s not possible.

And now it is.

Sometimes, Ian stares at his own hands and wonders why he couldn’t have them, too.

*

The city is dark when Ian leaves the station. Hunter had asked him to stay and… Do something. Something that involved a lot of copying, and scanning, and faxing? He’s pretty sure there was faxing. Ian still doesn’t really _get_ the fax machine, but he must be doing it right because nobody’s gotten mad at him yet.

He’s tired, and he has a paper due in a few days that he hasn’t even started working on, and the idea of trying to work on it _tonight_ isn’t really appealing. But Ian is pretty sure he has a free afternoon tomorrow after classes, so that should be a good time to—

“ _Shut your whore mouth_.”

Ian’s steps stutter to a stop as he turns to look down the street, where… _Shit_ , some guy has a woman pressed up against a wall. Is that a fucking _knife?_ He didn’t fucking leave the South Side just to deal with this shit.

But Ian hardly takes one step before the guy is suddenly the one pushed up against the wall, the woman falling to her knees before scrambling away in the opposite direction as fast as she can go. Ian watches with wide eyes as the mugger (or rapist, or whatever he is) crumples to the ground after the guy in black punches him a few times in the stomach.

And Ian realizes, _Holy shit, that’s The Masked Man_.

Right before his body is propelled backwards with the kind of force that knocks the breath right out of him, and he hears the loud blare of horns and the screeching of brakes right up until his head collides with something _hard_.

“ _Shit_ , hey, hey, stay awake,” is all he hears before he absolutely does not stay awake.

*

When Ian comes to, it’s with a low rumbly groan in his throat and a throbbing pain in his left temple. Like a _really_ throbbing pain. Like someone is going at his head with a hammer. A hammer made of ice, because it’s also very cold. It actually feels kind of nice and soothing, except for the part where it fucking _hurts_ and is fucking _cold_.

“Take him to the hospital and tell them _what_ , exactly? “This fucking idiot was standing in the middle of traffic, so I pushed him out of the way, and now he might be in a fucking _coma_ ”? Yeah, that’s not fucking suspicious as shit or anything.”

Is that the person hitting him with a hammer? He needs to fucking _stop_.

And then Ian realizes that he doesn’t _know_ that person’s voice. Or what he’s talking about. Or where he is. He squints his eyes in an attempt to maybe open them, but that just makes the pounding _worse_. _What the fuck_.

He twists his head (he vaguely recognizes that he’s laying down on something not hard, but not too soft, either), like maybe that’ll help, and upsets the ice hammer so that it slips from his temple and onto his face.

“Shit, I’ll call you back,” the mystery voice says just as Ian yelps in surprise. _Cold, cold, really fucking cold_. There’s a sharp pain in his shoulder as he pushes up and away from it, and the pain in his head is so thick and overwhelming that it makes Ian’s throat heave as he goes from horizontal to partly vertical. “Fuck, you going to throw up?”

Ian’s pretty sure if he opens his mouth to answer, he will. And if he nods his head to respond instead, he still will.

Something smooth and cool and rectangular is pushed into his hands—a trashcan, probably—and Ian finds the lip by feel alone and then promptly vomits into it. There isn’t much to throw up, though; the last thing he’d eaten was a snickers bar from the vending machine, which doesn’t taste nearly as good coming up as it did going down.

After that, it’s just dry heaving, which is really fucking awful, and it just makes the pain in his head _worse_. It’s like a vicious cycle.

Which is then worsened by the fact that Ian is blowing chunks in front of a total stranger. Great. Nothing like a dose of shame and embarrassment right on top of horrible pain.

Ian’s body finally starts to calm down—his mouth feels disgusting, his throat feels raw, a few tears are leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and, oh yeah, his head is still being assaulted with a fucking jackhammer. He grabs it with his hand, like maybe that’ll make it stop.

“You done?” The disembodied voice says, and Ian forces his eyes open. His vision is blurry (probably from his watering eyes) and splotchy (most likely from the fucking head injury), and he can just make out a dark, unfocused person in front of him. The trash can disappears from his grasp without warning, and Ian wilts back down onto the… Couch. That makes sense. Yeah, it definitely feels like a couch now that he thinks about it.

Even though even _thinking_ too hard hurts.

“Hey, hey, sit the fuck up, you’re not passing out again.” Ian’s shoulders are grasped tightly and he’s forced into sitting up—well, more like lounging, really. “Hey!” There’s snapping in front of his face, and Ian’s eyes slit open again. “You remember your name?”

Ian blinks, and is able to open his eyes a little wider. His name?

“It’s Ian,” he mutters, and his words feel like they’re forcefully dragged out of his throat. He groans immediately afterwards, and goes to cradle his head in his hands again—but then the mystery guy (because it’s definitely a guy) is snapping his fingers again.

“Uh, fuck,” he hisses. “What fucking year is it?” He doesn’t sound too sure about the question himself, and Ian’s face scrunches up in confusion.

“2017?” What kind of question is that?

The guy says nothing else, and Ian wonders if he can lay down again yet, and then there’s something cool (not freezing) touching his hand.

“Your head probably hurts like fuck, take these. Drink this.”

The next thing Ian knows is he’s having things pushed into his hands—a glass and… Pills? He blinks his eyes open wider, and looks down at his cupped palm. This guy he doesn’t know just gave him pills and expects him to take them?

Isn’t this how horror movies start?

Except Ian’s head is just in too much pain to really focus on that. He throws the pills in his mouth, and then presses the glass to his lips, gulping down… Yep, that’s water.

“Why does my head hurt so fucking bad?” Ian groans to the universe.

“Because you smacked it against the sidewalk,” mystery guy deadpans. “Lot better than the alternative, though.”

Ian wonders what that means, but is too tired to ask. He goes to lay back down. Sleep sounds like a pretty fucking awesome idea.

“For fuck’s sake. I don’t care if you hit your head, I will fucking punch you in the face if you don’t stay awake. You hit your fucking _head_. You’re not supposed to do that shit.”

But he _wants_ to.

Ian forces his eyes open anyway, and each time it gets a little easier to focus. After a few more blinks, everything is at least clear enough to be definable. He’s in a living room of some sort. There’s a tiny ass kitchen in the corner, and a TV, and stacks of books without shelves. Really, there’s hardly any furniture at all. If there weren’t lights on, Ian would doubt that anyone actually still lived here.

And then there’s the guy, standing a few feet away from him and looking at him with this… Anxiously annoyed expression? His arms are crossed, and he’s chewing his lip, and his eyebrows are furrowed. He looks like a shadow, dressed all in black like that—

Just like that, Ian remembers what he saw happening down the street. He remembers seeing the Masked Man.

“What happened?” Ian asks, voice laced with the pain he’s still experiencing. He keeps his eyes steadily on the man in black.

“I told you. You hit your head on the fucking pavement.”

“But why?”

“The fuck if I know, maybe you were tripping over your giant ass clown feet—“

“No,” Ian replies adamantly, voice getting louder, and his head throbs in protest. “No, I… I was standing still, and then something _hit_ me…”

“Lucky it wasn’t the semi that was headed straight for you,” the guy bites, and then turns his head so he’s looking away. “Someone must have pushed you out of the way.”

“Like you?”

“The fuck would I do that?” The guy throws him an incredulous look, but then continues to stare at the wall.

“…because I’m here?” Ian gestures around at what he can only presume is some sort of apartment. It could be a house. It’s not really important right now. “If you were just some random bystander, you wouldn’t have taken me back to your… Home? You would have called 9-1-1. I should be in a hospital right now.” Should be, but doesn’t really need to be. The drugs are starting to kick in. Ian’s pretty sure it wasn’t anything heavier than over-the-counter pain killers, but anything is better than nothing at this point.

The guy fidgets, and doesn’t say anything, and Ian can focus enough that he can see that the guy is clenching his jaw.

“But even if you are the guy that knocked me out of the way, then I should still be in a hospital… Why didn’t you take me to a hospital?” Ian asks. “Is it because you can’t?” The guy goes incredibly still. “Is it because me going to the hospital means questions? Questions that you can’t answer?”

The guy seems to have had enough with Ian’s guessing game, and he turns a heated glare on him.

“The fuck are you—“

“It’s because you’re the Masked Man, right?” Ian had seen him, and then right after had been saved? That’s definitely some superhero shit. Plus, this guy is dressed all in black, and didn’t take him to a hospital, and looks really uncomfortable…

“The _what?_ ” The guy looks completely thrown by the suggestion.

 _Or maybe not_.

“The… Masked Man?” Ian continues unsurely. “The vigilante-superhero? The one the news keeps talking about? Who saved all those people in that bank robbery?”

“ _That’s_ the fucking name they came up with?” He looks pissed all of a sudden. “The _Masked Man_? That is the most uncreative bullshit I’ve ever fucking—“

“So you are him.” Ian’s eyes widen. No way. _No fucking way_. He’d just been guessing, and kind of wishful thinking, but that doesn’t mean he actually thought he was _right_.

“…shit.”

Well, that sort of confirms it.

The Masked Man (which is a silly name to use when he’s not wearing a mask, but it’s really all Ian has) looks cagey all of a sudden, eyes darting around the room.

“Any chance I can convince you this is part of your concussion?”

“I’m actually feeling pretty lucid, so probably not,” Ian replies, and the Masked Man runs a hand through his dark hair and starts pacing and muttering to himself. He looks… Really panicked, actually, and it takes Ian a few minutes to understand why.

The Masked Man is a _wanted_ man—not just by the police, but by everyone. People want to lock him up, study him, dissect him, sell him. He’s a commodity that’s only out of reach because no one knows where he’ll show up, and no one knows who he is.

And now Ian does.

“…I’m not going to tell anyone,” Ian says, and he means it. Sure, he technically works for a news station, and _yeah_ , there’s like a super huge reward for anyone with information on the guy, but… He really does mean it. This guy sort of saved his life, Ian at least owes him his secret identity.

The Masked Man snorts. “Like I can fucking trust some dumbass who just stands in the middle of traffic—“

“It’s not like a regular thing!”

Ian is quickly leveled with a glare.

“Look, what are your other options? I mean you either trust me, or… What? Kill me? Keep me here?” Ian asks with amusement.

The Masked Man bites his lip.

“…shit, you’re not going to _keep_ me here, are you?” Ian asks in alarm, and the Masked Man doesn’t look at him. “I have a _job_ , and school, and a roommate, and _family_ , people are going to realize if I go missing!” Ian’s starting to panic. Yeah, he did ROTC in high school, but what the fuck kind of good is that going to do him against a _superhero?_ Even if he had a gun, this guy is fucking bulletproof.

“Shit, will you shut the fuck up? For someone with a fucking concussion, you talk way too much,” the Masked Man grunts out, and then he’s running his hand through his hair again, shooting uncertain glances at Ian. “I’m not going to keep you hostage, all right, so calm the fuck down.” He turns around and starts pacing again, and if their present conversation hadn’t been enough proof already, the mask sticking out of his back pocket would be. “Just stay here the rest of the night, and I’ll figure something out.”

“Can I—“

“No fucking sleeping.” Ian receives another glare. “The last fucking thing I need is a comatose ginger on my couch.”

*

Since he can’t sleep, and since taking out his phone probably isn’t the best way to get a superhero to trust him, Ian kind of just… Watches him. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with someone else in his space, and he doesn’t seem to be doing anything more than pacing. As the pain clears and Ian starts to feel like a regular person again (albeit with the taste of stale vomit in his mouth, and an ache in his shoulder), he notices that the Masked Man is dressed in a pair of tightly fitting black jeans and… A hoodie.

Huh. When Ian imagines the sort of outfits superheroes wear, _hoodie_ generally isn’t the first thing to come to mind.

“Will you stop fucking staring at me?” He spits in agitation.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

Then again, when Ian thinks _superhero_ , this guy isn’t exactly what comes to mind, either. There’s a romantic notion that accompanies the idea of being saved from a superhero, but it turns out it just results in a hostage-like situation and a possible concussion.

Ian keeps staring at him, anyway.

“So… What’s your name?” Ian might as well try to make conversation. The Masked Man shoots him a look that is both annoyed and disbelieving. And, yeah, Ian guesses that asking a superhero what their actual name is is kind of stupid. “You can’t just like… Make something up?” A huff. “So I should just keep calling you the Masked Man?”

“Fuck no, that name is stupid as shit.”

“Okay, well what do _you_ call yourself, then?” God, talking to this guy is like pulling teeth.

“The fuck you mean?”

“You know, your superhero alias or… Whatever.”

“The fuck is it with this city and giving me some sort of _name_?” He growls in agitation. “Can’t I just fucking do a good thing without the entirety of Chicago trying to nose into my fucking business?”

“Not really, no.” And Ian must be as surprised as the Masked Man is when he laughs—he looks like he wants to punch himself in the face afterwards. “But I mean. You’re a superhero.”

“Please don’t start with that fucking shit.”

“But you are!” Ian insists, and then bites his lip. “Right? I mean, what all those people say—“

“I don’t care what “all those people say,” all right? Like it’s any of their fucking business…” His voice turns low and heated and _angry_.

“You kind of made it their business when you stopped that bank robbery,” Ian points out.

“Okay, smart guy.” Suddenly, the Masked Man is stalking towards him, and Ian presses himself into the back of the couch. “You saying I should’ve just done nothing? That I should’ve just sat there while those fucks pressed guns into people’s faces?”

“I’m just saying that you drew attention to yourself when you clearly don’t want it.”

“‘Course I don’t want it! Doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit back and watch some tools beat people around. God, I try to do the right fucking thing for once in my life, and it all goes to shit anyway!” He never makes it to Ian. Takes a sharp turn instead and heads through one of the adjoining doors, slamming it behind him.

Ian thinks about how he could leave. The door isn’t far, and he knows Chicago well enough that if he hopped on a bus he could figure out how to get back home eventually.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he lets his head fall onto the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling, and imagines what he would do if he was a superhero.

*

Ian wakes up with a start as something settles over him.

“ _Jesus_ , it’s just a blanket, chill the fuck out.”

“Time is it?” Ian mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. His head sort of hurts again, and he doesn’t exactly remember falling asleep.

“Nearly four,” the Masked Man replies. It’s dark, and Ian’s eyesight is shit again, but he can tell that the guy’s not standing too far away.

“Thought I wasn’t supposed to sleep?”

“Turns out you’re fucking awful at following directions, but whatever. You’re probably out of the danger zone or some shit. Just go back to sleep.”

So Ian does.

*

At 7am, the alarm on Ian’s phone blares to life, jolting him out of sleep. He groans, because he still has a headache, and his hand automatically reaches for where he leaves his phone on his nightstand.

Only it’s not there.

Ian’s eyes fly open as he remembers the night before, and he expects to find himself in the Masked Man’s apartment still. He does not expect to wake up back in his dorm room, and yet… There he is. Still fully dressed (his phone is in his back pocket, and he fumbles for it to turn off the shrill ring), with absolutely no idea how he got there. If it wasn’t for the headache, Ian would be certain he’d dreamed it all up.

His roommate walks in from the hall and shoots him a grin.

“Dude, you okay?”

“I—yeah,” Ian mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How did I get here?”

“Wow, you must’ve been _wasted_ last night. Friend of yours brought you by like an hour ago? Said you blacked out at his place.”

A friend?

“Did you get his name?” Ian asks, eyes wide, and his roommate shoots him a look.

“Shit, Ian. How hungover are you?”

Which means he doesn’t have a name (because he expects Ian to know his own fucking friend’s name, except that it wasn’t his friend, it was a fucking _masked vigilante superhero_ ), so he probably doesn’t have anything else, like an address or a phone number or—

“What’d this guy look like?” Ian asks, and his roommate eyes him strangely again. “I was out with a lot of people last night,” he lies smoothly. “Just want to know who I need to buy a bottle of vodka for as thanks.”

His roommate seems to appreciate this reason.

“Dark haired dude, kind of on the short side? Never seen him around here before. Seriously blue eyes. Oh! Tattoos on his knuckles.”

“Tattoos?”

“Yeah, man. Spelled out, “fuck you up.” Didn’t know that was your sort of crowd, Gallagher,” his roommate jokes, but Ian’s already tuned him out, focusing on the clues he’s been given.

It’s not a fucking lot to go off of, but it is _something_.

*

(Actually, it’s not really anything. Ian’s only tools are word-of-mouth and Google, and apparently dark-hair, blue eyes, and an obscene tattoo isn’t a lot for _anyone_ to go off of.)

*

Turns out that Ian didn’t need to go looking for the Masked Man, after all.

A week after Ian is nearly hit by a car, he’s walking down the same road and sidewalk when the superhero falls into step beside him. He’s not wearing all black—just jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket. If Ian had never seen his face, there’s no way he’d be able to pick him out of a crowd.

It kind of makes him wonder how many people with super powers might actually be around him.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Ian hums after the Masked Man hasn’t said anything for nearly a block.

“Yeah, I’m full of fucking surprises that way,” he growls in return, and Ian smiles. Another block of silence, before, “You didn’t tell anyone.”

Ian doesn’t ask how he knows. Of course he knows. If Ian blabbed, it would be all over every news station, every paper. There would be a bounty out on every dark-haired, blue-eyed man between the ages of 20 and 30 (Ian’s estimating) in the Chicago area.

“Said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” Ian can’t help but grin smugly at that, glancing sideways at him. “Does that mean I’ve earned the right to learn your name yet?”

“Fuck off.”

“Strange na—“ Ian is suddenly smashed into from the side, and he stumbles sideways. “ _Fuck_ , I’m still recovering, you asshole.” What is this guy made out of, _rocks?_

“You better fucking watch yourself.” Maybe it’s supposed to sound like a threat (maybe it even _is_ one), but it just sounds sort of teasing and playful to Ian.

“Hey, you want to get coffee or something?” Ian asks, and feels a trill of victory as the Masked Man’s steps actually falter.

“I don’t do shit like that.” The guy gives him a totally nonplussed expression. “Stay out of traffic, freckles.”

And just like that, he peels off down a side street, takes a sharp right, and is gone. Ian considers following him, and then decides to leave it. At least this time.

He’s still not sure he won’t get the shit kicked out of him if he attempts to stalk a superhero.

…even if he does want to know how the _fuck_ he knows where Ian lives.

*

It happens again a week later, only this time Ian is walking _too_ work instead of _from_ , and is therefore balancing twelve or so Starbucks cups.

“That certainly explains things,” the Masked Man comments dryly (seriously, Ian needs a new name for him, because it’s a stupid fucking name as it is, and even stupider when the guy isn’t even wearing a mask).

“Don’t you ever start a conversation like a normal person?” Ian shoots back, and his own words don’t register with him until he sees the superhero’s raised eyebrows and completely unamused expression. Ian snorts out a laugh and grins.

“Fucking comedian right here,” he drawls, and Ian just keeps smiling. “But seriously, what’s with all the fucking coffee?”

“For my job,” Ian explains, shifting the drink carriers on his arms a bit. “I’m basically the fucking errand boy.” Not that Ian minds all that much. It’s not a long-term thing, after all, and it’s not like he has any interest in actually learning about all the journalism shit, or the television shit, or basically any of the shit he could learn from his internship.

This time, he stays with Ian until Ian reaches the building, and Ian is once again rewarded with throwing the vigilante for a loop.

“You work for Channel 9 news?” He asks incredulously, and his eyes dart around nervously. Which makes sense—Ian knows his secret, Ian works for a news station. It’s not exactly an ideal situation.

“Intern for, really,” Ian explains, and then stares him down with an expectant look. _Yep, this is where I work, and I still haven’t told your fucking secret_. “This enough to get me a name yet?”

“Yeah, it’s _none of your goddamn business_.” The Masked Man walks away backwards and flips Ian off for good measure.

*

After that, Ian kind of expects it to happen a third time.

And it does.

Only this time, Ian is sitting on the bus, headphones in as he tries to do some reading for his current focus lit class (James Joyce, and Ian hates himself for enrolling in it _so fucking much_ ). Although it’s more him just randomly highlighting things in the text to trick the professor into thinking he knows what the fuck is going on.

So he doesn’t really notice someone sit down next to him—it’s a public bus, it happens—until Ian forgets to lean his body against a turn and ends up pressing against the stranger.

“Sorry,” he mutters reflexively, because it might be public transportation, but it doesn’t mean people are cool with being pressed into by strangers. His eyes hardly flick sideways as he says it, but the glance is enough for him to take in the F-U-C-K on the stranger’s knuckles.

Not a stranger, then.

Ian tears out one of his earbuds, and looks at the Masked Man in surprise.

“Are you fucking stalking me or something?” The question comes out on a laugh, but it’s actually a serious concern. This guy knows where he works, knows where he lives, and apparently knows what fucking bus routes he takes. What next? Is he going to show up outside of Ian’s fucking classes?

“The fuck would I do that?” He seems genuinely confused by the question, eyebrows pinched together. He almost looks repulsed by the very suggestion.

“So what is this, then?” Ian gestures between them. “I’m not going to tell anyone, so you don’t have to keep—“ Ian’s words falter in his mouth as an idea dawns on him. “Oh my fucking god, are you trying to _intimidate_ me?”

“What? Fuck no.” Except the way he says it basically confirms Ian’s suspicions.

“Wow,” Ian drags out. “That… That’s adorable.” The man beside him tenses at the word, like he finds it incredibly insulting. Or off-putting. Ian bets a guy whose hands promise to fuck you up doesn’t get called things like _adorable_ very often. “Well, there’s no need. The fact that you could punch a hole through me is intimidation enough.”

“The fuck makes you think I could do that?”

Ian turns his head to fully look at him, eyes appraising, and he squirms like the attention and curiosity in Ian’s stare makes him uncomfortable.

“Can’t you?” Ian prods softly.

And he bites his lip like he’s considering it. Like he’s considering actually telling Ian something, and Ian’s eyes widen with surprise.

The bus doors swing open as they come to a stop, and, without a word, the Masked Man gets up and off the bus. Ian’s not even sure what stop it is, is pretty sure he doesn’t know either. But the escape was there, so he took it.

Ian looks out the window as the bus drives away, but the superhero is already gone. He sighs and sticks his headphone back in, staring down at words and sentences that make less sense than they did ten minutes ago. Especially since Ian can’t help but think about what would have happened, if the bus ride had been a little bit longer.

*

Ian does sort of expect the superhero to show up outside (or possibly even _in_ ) one of his classes over the course of the next week, but doesn’t see him. He doesn’t stroll up next to Ian on his way to or from Channel 9, he doesn’t fall into the seat Ian fights to keep empty next to him on the bus or the L.

He saves nine people from a fire that week, and the headlines explode with news about him, so Ian knows he’s still around.

In fact, even though he’s a superhero, Ian finds himself wondering if he’s okay. After all, fires… That’s a new one.

He starts to wonder if maybe he’s proved himself somehow. If maybe Ian’s finally earned the superhero’s trust. It’s been nearly a month since he saved Ian’s life, and Ian hasn’t breathed a word of it to anyone. Although Ian didn’t know that gaining his trust meant not seeing him anymore.

Too much time is spent weighing if the cost is worth it.

*

It’s 2am, it’s raining, and there’s a sudden loud, insistent knocking. Ian sits up so fast that the vertigo nearly sends him horizontal again, and then he’s cursing and fumbling for the lamp on his nightstand, head whipping around. His roommate is gone for the weekend, so who the fuck could be knocking—

On the window? That’s not right.

Ian looks at it, but it’s too dark to be able to see anything more than silhouettes. He fumbles for the window and wrenches it open, and is surprised to see the Masked Man (actually in his mask this time, so the name is slightly less stupid) waiting there.

“What the fuck—“

“Just let me the fuck in, jesus!”

“There’s a screen on the window!”

“Then take it the fuck off, red, it’s fucking pouring out here.”

Ian gapes at him, has about a million and one questions to ask, but focuses instead on pulling the screen off the window. He’s suddenly thankful for that one time his roommate wanted to throw water balloons at freshmen and took the time to unscrew the fucking thing.

When he’s finally yanked it off, the Masked Man is falling into his room completely soaked and is followed by the sound of sirens, and Ian slams the window closed behind him. He’s leaking water all over Ian’s bed.

Ian sighs heavily and pushes him off the wet spot he’s already created on his comforter, and is a little surprised when he actually goes.

“What are you doing here?” Ian asks in confusion, watching as the vigilante unties his mask and falls into Ian’s desk chair. “Actually.” His eyebrows pinch together. “How did you even get _up_ here? I’m on the third floor.”

“Fire escape, ledge, not that complicated.” He’s bent over himself, and he seems to be having trouble speaking. It’s almost like…

“Holy shit, are you _hurt_?” Ian asks, because he doesn’t quite believe it. After all, he’s a _superhero_.

“Yes, I’m fucking hurt, okay?” He spits, viciously and defensively. “It was a fucking ambush. Cops rammed me with a SWAT van.” His breathing sounds labored and painful. “They had me on the run, your place was close, end of story.”

Ian watches him for a few seconds, face skewed up in concentration as he takes all this information in. All he wants to say is, _But you’re a superhero_. Superheroes aren’t supposed to get hurt, unless they have some sort of weakness. Are SWAT vans his weakness? That’d be pretty fucking lame.

“You going to be okay?” Ian asks hesitantly.

“I’m not a fucking smear on the road, so yeah, I’m probably going to be fine. You got like ice or anything?”

Ian gets out of his bed, feeling a little awkward in just his boxers and a t-shirt, but… Whatever. Just because he has a vague attraction to the guy doesn’t mean it’s reciprocated. Who ever heard of a gay superhero, anyway?

He heads for the mini fridge and looks inside, lips pressed into a line.

“We have popsicles?” Ian offers, looking over his shoulder.

“Popsicles?” The steely look he’s met with makes it seem like Ian is the one who crashed in all wet and wanted and unexpected. Like Ian is highly inconveniencing _him_.

“It’s all we got, you fucking want them or not?” Ian asks sharply with a glare, and the superhero lets out a long-suffering sigh, before holding out his hand.

“Yeah, fine, whatever, just give them to me.”

Ian tosses the box over, and then stands there awkwardly. He’s not really sure what to do in this situation. How exactly does one help an injured superhero?

His attention is drawn by the slap of wet fabric against the floor, and he looks over just in time to see him take off his shirt as well. Ian’s eyes widen, and he’s surprised by the mottled bruises all over the superhero’s chest and stomach. But it’s not even _bad_ bruising. Probably painful, but, for being hit by a fucking van, it’s kind of miraculous.

“You got a towel or some shit?”

Ian jolts into action, afraid to be caught staring, and trips over his own feet as he heads for his closet.

“There’s, um, showers, too. Down the hall. If you wanted to take one,” Ian offers, holding the towel out, and trying not to watch too intently as he starts to dry himself off.

“You got a roommate?” He asks, chin jutting towards the empty bed on the other side of the room. It takes Ian a minute to answer, mostly because he’s kind of smiling stupidly at the way the guy’s hair is sticking up after he scrubbed the towel over it.

“Yeah, but he’s gone for the weekend. So… Don’t worry. No one’s going to know you’re here.”

Ian gets a grunt in response, and he leans back against his closet and carefully observes the scene taking place before him.

“You know, I think this warrants a name,” Ian finally surmises, and he’s greeted with a befuddled look.

“The fuck makes you think that?”

“Well. You know my name,” Ian points out. “You know where I live, where I work, what buses I take. You showed up at my window at 2am so I would harbor you from the cops,” Ian lists casually. “Oh, and I haven’t told your fucking secret.” He stares the superhero down challengingly, and for a moment that’s all there is. The two of them just staring at each other, waiting for the other to cave.

Eventually, the Masked Man drops his gaze and makes an aggravated groan through gritted teeth.

“ _Fine_.” Ian’s entire body seizes with anticipation. “It’s Mickey.”

 _Mickey_. Ian smiles.

“Good to finally have a name to the mask.”

“Why don’t you do the world a favor and go fuck yourself, all right?”

*

“Do you want some dry clothes or something?” Ian thinks to offer after watching Mickey tend to himself for several minutes (he’s not ogling, that would be weird, he’s just… Concerned). “Mickey?” He tacks on as an afterthought, grin positively smug with delight as Mickey scowls at him. He has individually wrapped popsicles pressed alternately against his ribs or his stomach, and the towel is hanging damp and useless around his neck (he’d tried to dry his pants by pressing the towel into them—needless to say, it didn’t work).

It’s actually a pretty hilarious picture, all things considered.

Ian doesn’t expect Mickey to respond, so when he follows through on that, Ian starts digging around in his drawers for a pair of workout sweats he uses for runs in the winter and therefore hasn’t touched in a few months. He throws them at Mickey, and they catch him right in the face.

“The _fuck_ ,” Mickey curses, grabbing at them and letting them fall to his lap. Apparently pressing popsicles into his bruises is more important than changing out of his wet pants. “I didn’t ask,” Mickey reminds Ian, and Ian just shrugs, crossing his arms.

“I figure… You saved my life, kind of kidnapped me, and then nursed me through a possible concussion that was partly your fault. It’s the least I can do, right?” Ian teases. Because it really is the least he could do. Ian doesn’t really think too hard about what could have happened if Mickey hadn’t been there to push him out of the way.

Then again, if he hadn’t been there, Ian probably wouldn’t have gotten distracted in the first place.

“Popsicles and sweats, lucky me,” Mickey grunts, and then he’s eying Ian strangely. “The fuck are you looking at me like that for?”

Ian has no idea how he’s looking at Mickey, but apparently Mickey think it’s crazy, judging by the way he’s now looking at Ian. And he must know why, because his eyes widen slightly as if he’s had some sort of minor epiphany.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses. “You don’t have some fucking damsel-in-distress complex, do you?” Mickey looks like he desperately wants Ian to say no.

“A _what?_ ” Ian’s brow pinches together.

“You know, where someone saves you, and you like… Fall in love with them, or some shit, I don’t know.” Mickey’s hand twists around on his wrist, as if he’s trying to pluck the words out of the air.

And Ian laughs. He laughs so hard he nearly doubles over.

“You think I’m _in love_ with you?” Ian guffaws, and it just makes Mickey’s face darken. “Are you fucking _insane?_ I just learned your name like fifteen minutes ago!”

Mickey just turns away, but Ian can’t let this go.

“I can’t believe you—I’m sorry, but guys that give me concussions aren’t usually my type.” As if splitting headaches and weeks of stalking appeal to his romantic nature, like _fuck_.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey is looking at him with a neutral face. “What sort of _guy_ is your type then, chuckles?”

Ian’s laughter dies quick and cold in his throat, dropping like a stone straight into his stomach. Shit. _Shit_. Ian hadn’t been thinking, he hadn’t—he doesn’t really _come out_ to people anymore. Doesn’t feel the need to. He stopped feeling ashamed of himself a long time ago, stopped apologizing for who he is.

Doesn’t mean he wants to get his ass kicked in.

The popsicles fall to the floor as Mickey stands, and Ian takes a step back, all of his words caught up in his throat. Of all the things that are going to make a superhero kick his ass, this was the thing that did it. A fag-bashing superhero. Who’d have thought?

Ian’s retreat halts as the backs of his thighs collide with his roommate’s bed.

“You know…” Mickey starts as he gets closer, thumb rubbing at the corner of his mouth, and Ian’s eyes hyper focus on the black inked letters on Mickey’s knuckles. The ones that he’s probably going to get intimately acquainted with in a few seconds. And Ian thinks, _Fuck it_. Sure, this guy has superpowers or whatever, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to just hand himself over. He squares his shoulders, balls his fists, and— ”I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Falters completely.

“What?” Ian asks, not understanding what Mickey is saying in the slightest.

He’s glancing away, staring at something in the shadows that the faint light from Ian’s desk lamp doesn’t reach.

“The concussion thing,” Mickey finally explains, glancing back at Ian. “I tried to angle it so that—“ Mickey’s doing this weird thing with his hands, trying to show Ian rather than tell him, but gives up with a frustrated sigh. “Anyway. Didn’t think about it right, rushed in too fast—“

“And saved my life,” Ian finishes. He’s still not exactly sure what’s going on. “I think a concussion is a small price to pay for my _life_ , especially since you didn’t have to—“

“Didn’t have to?” Whatever vulnerability had been in Mickey’s stance before quickly dissipates. “The fuck was I supposed to do? Just let you get hit?” The way Mickey says it makes it sound like it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Which it kind of is, really, because it’s not like Ian _wanted_ to get hit by a truck or anything. That’s not the point he’s trying to make.

“No, I’m just saying that most people wouldn’t have done—“

“Yeah, well I’m not most fucking people, am I?” Mickey growls. He sounds so angry, and there’s so much emotional whiplash going on that Ian’s having a hard time following exactly what’s going on. “People can’t do what I can fucking do, all right, so who else is going to do it?”

“You don’t owe anyone anything just because you’re different, Mickey,” Ian says, his voice more heated than he means for it to be. He’s not sure what he’s doing. It’s not like he thinks Mickey should stop doing what he’s doing. He’s helping people, saving people. He’s a _superhero_. But Ian wonders if he’s doing it because he wants to, or because he feels he  _has_ to.

Ian is suddenly aware of how close they’re standing to each other—the closest they’ve ever been face-to-face, actually. Mickey is staring at him intensely, and the air between them suddenly feels thick and heavy against Ian’s skin.

“You don’t,” Ian reiterates, voice softer.

Who moves first doesn’t feel relevant when their mouths crash together, sudden and hard. It’s like running full speed into a concrete wall, and Ian winces at the pain before pushing into it, chasing after it, wanting it. His hands come up and grip at Mickey’s arms as Mickey’s fist into his shirt, both of them tugging the other closer until their bodies slam together. Ian breaks away from the kiss as all of his air rushes out of him in a painful huff, and Mickey takes the opportunity to pull Ian’s shirt over his head.

Ian doesn’t really understand what’s happening, but he also doesn’t really fucking care, especially with Mickey’s hands curving over his now-exposed hip bones and tugging him in again.

Mickey doesn’t feel different. Ian doesn’t know why he thought he would. But as his hands run from shoulder to waist and back again, the skin he touches feels… Normal. Absolutely normal. When his fingers press into it, it gives, and when he drags his nails over it, Mickey reacts to the sensation. His mouth might not leave bruises behind, and his teeth might not leave marks, but that doesn’t mean Mickey doesn’t _feel_ it.

They’re backing up, and Ian has the presence of mind to make them change direction—he is not having sex on his roommate’s bed, those sheets haven’t been washed _once_ —and his hands fumble with the wet denim of Mickey’s jeans as he tries to get them off before there’s a bed involved and removing clothes becomes a lot more difficult.

Not that removing wet denim isn’t _hard as fuck_.

Mickey pulls away to deal with it himself, cursing as he peels himself out of his pants and boxers simultaneously, and Ian uses the time to kick off his own boxers.

There isn’t some long moment of them drinking each other in. They don’t stand there and stare at each other’s naked bodies, like they’ve spent so much time picturing what the skin looked like under all the layers of clothing. This isn’t some thing they’ve both built up in their minds since they met. It’s sudden, a wildfire blaze that appeared because the conditions were just right, and they come back together with all the fervor of a natural disaster.

Mickey must realize they’re back by Ian’s bed, because he’s suddenly flipping Ian onto it, back first, pinning him to the mattress as he grinds down against him, and Ian moans, loud and echoing in the otherwise silent room. For a second, Mickey stills completely, and Ian rolls his hips up, seeking the friction of Mickey’s hard cock sliding against his own, and that seems to be enough to drag Mickey back into it.

But when Ian moans again, Mickey silences the sound with his mouth.

Mickey is solid. It’s the only word Ian can think of. His grip isn’t so strong that it’s painful, and his body isn’t so heavy that it feels like it’s going to crush Ian. But when he’d pressed Ian back onto the bed, the force of Mickey’s hands on his wrists had made Ian fear they would break when they collided with the mattress. It’s like he’s denser, somehow.

Solid.

The way a stone can’t hurt you when it’s just sitting there, but could crush you once set in motion.

Ian wonders how easy it would be for Mickey to crush him.

His hands dance along the plains of Mickey’s back, swiping lower and lower as they dance across every knob of his spine, and then Ian wonders why he’s being teasing and coy at all. He grabs Mickey’s ass and is thanked by the surprised groan that breaks their mouths apart.

Mickey’s obviously a fan of dick, if the way he’s suddenly grabbing and pumping Ian’s is any indication, so Ian figures this isn’t the first time he’s had sex with a guy. He probably tops, which is fine, whatever. It’s not like Ian’s never bottomed before, it’s not like he hates it or anything, but it’s not exactly his preference.

So it surprises him when Mickey’s lips drop close to his ear, breath hot and damp, as he demands, “Fuck me.”

Ian’s flipped them over in seconds, already reaching into his top drawer as he settles between Mickey’s thighs, and then is nearly kicked in the stomach as Mickey turns over and pulls his knees beneath him, presenting his ass to Ian in a truly magnificent fashion. Rubbing the lube between his fingers, Ian grips Mickey’s hip with his clean hand and then presses a finger into his asshole.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey hisses, head dropping, but that’s all he says—he’s quiet aside from his heavy breathing and the occasional grunt as Ian stretches him open, first with one finger, then two. Ian’s just slipped a third finger inside when Mickey let’s out an irate, “God, you sure are taking your sweet ass time back there. Would you just _fuck me_ already?”

And Ian assumes that’s the closest Mickey probably ever gets to begging.

So Ian rolls on the condom and coats his cock with the lube still on his hand before pushing into Mickey in one long, slow slide. Mickey exhales loudly as he goes, and when Ian bottoms out, he pushes his ass back as if he could somehow take Ian’s cock deeper.

Bracing his hands on Mickey’s hips, Ian catches his breath, adjusting to the feel of Mickey’s ass before his fingers grip tighter and he’s pulling out again.

It’s the quietest fuck that Ian’s ever had, and Ian’s not usually quiet. He has no shame in being vocal, and he likes to let his partner know when he’s doing something right and how much Ian is enjoying himself. But Mickey is unnaturally quiet, and so Ian bites down on his lip and keeps the sound in. It feels like a contest, and Ian wants Mickey to break first.

He fucks him slow at first, and then begins to speed up with each thrust, pounding in faster and harder. One of Ian’s hands drops to the bed as his chest presses, hot and sweaty, to Mickey’s back. He starts to bite and kiss and lick at whatever skin his mouth can touch, and without any prompting, reaches around to start jerking Mickey’s cock in time with each piston of his hips.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey mutters, and it sounds close enough to a moan that it urges Ian on—harder, faster, pushing their bodies up his tiny as fuck dorm bed with each thrust.

He’s always liked a little encouragement in bed.

There’s a small hitch in Mickey’s breath and that’s the only warning before he’s coming. The groan that he lets out sounds like it’s been ripped forcefully from his throat, but Ian takes it as a victory. He strokes Mickey all the way through it, fucking him harder as he chases his own orgasm. Mickey doesn’t stop him, even though he must be sensitive, and Ian doesn’t let go of Mickey’s cock until he finally comes a dozen or so thrusts later.

Ian collapses on Mickey’s back, breathing heavily and reeling from the pleasure of his orgasm. _Fuck_ , that was good.

Like, _really_ good.

Like, _Ian really wants to do that again_ good.

Mickey is still on his knees, still braced on his forearms, even with Ian’s limp weight on top of him. Ian wonders if that’s a superhero thing, until Mickey growls, “Would you get the fuck off me so I don’t lay in my own jizz?”

Ian laughs, tired and delighted, and then slowly pulls out of Mickey before flopping onto the minuscule sliver of bed left next to them.

He hits his shoulder against the wall, hisses a, “ _Shit_ ,” and then starts laughing again.

“Did I just get fucked by a crazy person?” Mickey asks, and Ian laughs harder, even as he’s pulling the the condom off and knotting the top. Mickey is awkwardly curved on the opposite side of the mattress (which is like a foot and a half away, half of him is clearly hanging off the edge) to avoid the new stain forming on Ian’s comforter, and Ian just kicks it clean off the bed.

It still doesn’t leave a shit ton of room, and Mickey doesn’t seem to want to venture into the now come-free space between them, so Ian rolls his eyes and drags him into it.

He comes surprisingly easy.

“I don’t fucking cuddle,” Mickey growls, and Ian just grins at him.

“Nobody fucking asked you to.”

Ian stays on his side, Mickey’s shoulder pressed against his chest, hardly an inch between the rest of their bodies. Mickey glares up at the ceiling, and Ian smiles.

Afterglow is awesome.

* 

Mickey dozes off.

Ian doesn’t; he lies beside him and sort of just… Watches him sleep. Which is admittedly pretty creepy, but there’s not much else for Ian to do. He’s not tired—well, that’s not true. He _is_ tired, but his mind is whirring at what is probably full capacity, and as relaxed and sated as Ian feels (the kind of feeling that really only comes from a good high or a great fuck), his head just won’t let him sleep.

He thinks too much. He thinks too much, and too hard, and he always has. He thinks and thinks and _over thinks_ , until his entire thought process is this knotted, convoluted mess. It’s a bad habit. Especially since it tends to put ideas into Ian’s head that might not have been there otherwise; Ian is pretty good at convincing himself of things.

So he just had sex with Mickey. Which presumably means that Mickey is gay, or bi, or something that happens to have a fondness for cock—but that’s something to dwell on later. They had sex. That’s a thing that happened.

It’s a thing that Ian is really hoping happens again (possibly within the next few hours).

But it’s not like Ian hasn’t hooked up with people before. He’s not a stranger to one-night-stands, sober or otherwise, where he fucked some random and that's it—they hardly ever spend the night, and Ian doesn’t fall into the habit of letting himself sleep over, either. A hook-up is just a hook-up, and he knows he has a tendency to get attached. The sooner he lets go, the better.

Maybe that’s the problem here.

First off, Mickey isn’t just some random guy that Ian plucked out of a bar or a club. Okay, so he _did_ just learn Mickey’s name less than two hours ago, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t have… A thing. Kind of like a friendship? If friendships are built on a series of unscheduled, stalkeresque meet-ups that hardly last five minutes and quasi-kidnapping.

But there is _a thing_. Ian just doesn’t exactly have a name for it. Is it the kind of thing that exists between a superhero and someone who knows their civil identity? Is there even a _name_ for that? And is that what this is? Ian’s not really sure. But whatever it is, he’s pretty sure it’s the reason he stopped in the middle of the street that night and watched Mickey save someone (curiosity? awe? wonder? surprise?). It’s the reason that he looked forward to whenever Mickey’s next random appearance happened to be (anticipation? excitement? impatience? _longing?_ ).

It’s the reason he didn’t think twice about opening the window tonight and letting Mickey take sanctuary in his tiny dorm room.

The reason he hasn’t uttered a single word of Mickey’s secret to anyone.

Where did this loyalty even _come_ from? Is this what a hero complex is? Ian doesn’t exactly have experience with them. Mickey saved him, and Ian owes him. It’s just that simple, and Ian can leave it right there. Should leave it right there.  _Will_ leave it right there.

…except he really can’t. Because Ian might not know shit about hero complexes, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t what this is. That even if he somehow did something to save Mickey’s life, if he did something to even the debt… This wouldn’t go away. This weird fierce loyalty he has, this weird _protectiveness_ (and isn’t that just stupid? feeling protective over someone whose skin _deflects bullets?_ ) that had flared up during their argument, and this thirsty curiosity that Ian has about anything and everything that has to do with Mickey that doesn’t feel like it can ever be satisfied.

Ian doesn’t think those things will ever go away.

So Mickey isn’t just some random. Because there’s this confusing, kind of painful in a sore-muscle ache way, but somehow not wholly unpleasant (and doesn’t that just make it more _fucking confusing_ ) thing between them.

Mickey turns over in his sleep, which brings them face to face. Ian’s eyes sweep over his relaxed expression and he smiles a little bit—Mickey looks a lot less angry when he’s sleeping. He wonders if he reached out and touched Mickey, if it would wake him up.

The fact that they’re even laying side by side, that Mickey is asleep and Ian would very much like to be, is the other side of Ian’s over-thinking brain coin. Because Ian doesn’t do this. Hasn’t done this in a long time. He doesn’t fall asleep next to guys, and they don’t fall asleep next to him. Because that’s all it takes for Ian. The vulnerability required to fall asleep in the presence of someone else is like a harpoon straight into his chest cavity, sinking into his heart and anchoring there, and then he’s lost to it.

It's too much time. Ian does hook-ups because they're fast, and easy, and when they're done, they're done. There's never enough time for Ian to start thinking too hard, for him to start  _feeling_ things, for moments like this to even have a chance of occurring. It's how Ian protects himself.

And watching the rise and fall of Mickey’s shoulder as he breathes, Ian knows that it’s probably too late—can feel it in the sudden clenching of his throat, and the way he just wants to run his fingers across Mickey’s skin for no greater reason than just _wanting_ to.

 _God fucking dammit_.

Ian wonders if he’ll ever get better at holding onto his own heart.

He reaches out and runs his thumb along Mickey’s cheek bone. He half expects Mickey to wake up and smack him away, to get angry. But nothing happens. Mickey even twitches his head slightly in the direction of Ian’s touch, before he’s twisting around again until his back is nearly brushing Ian’s chest.

Ian feels a little braver now, tentatively carding his fingers through Mickey’s hair, finding that it’s still slightly damp, and he hears Mickey exhale in what could have been a content sigh but… Ian’s not sure if he’s just hearing what he wants to hear, at this point. Bolder, he gently wraps his arm around Mickey’s waist and pulls them flush together. The room is chilly, and the blankets are dirty on the floor, and the body heat feels wonderful, and Ian tries not to think about how they’re spooning.

He doesn't think about how they’re _cuddling_ (when Mickey explicitly stated that he doesn't do this, and when Ian hasn't let himself do this in a  _long_ time), and about how he's totally _fucked_.

Instead, Ian momentarily presses his lips against the back of Mickey’s neck and closes his eyes. Accepting his fate seems to have appeased his rambling thoughts, and even if it hadn’t, the warmth of Mickey’s skin would still be enough to pull him into sleep.

So fucked.

*

It’s still raining when they both wake up, and Ian’s alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so he knows it’s still early. To avoid whatever defensive freakout Mickey might have in reaction to the fact that they’re cuddling, Ian rolls his hips against Mickey’s ass before flipping him over and kissing him hard and dirty.

This time when they fuck, Ian makes them do it face-to-face, and watches how hard Mickey bites down on his own lip to keep the noises in, how he tries to muffle them in a fist or the skin of his arm—so Ian pins his wrists to the bed and kisses him.

Mickey seems to have no problem moaning into his mouth.

“ _Shit_ , red,” Mickey says afterwards, lying flat on his back while Ian sits next to him, back to the wall and Mickey’s shoulder against his hip. Ian just looks down at him, at his closed eyes and parted lips, and the way his flushed, naked skin looks in the weak morning light.

Ian doesn’t want to admit to himself how much he likes the sight of it.

He spends a few minutes terrified of the idea that Mickey will realize that it’s morning, that he can leave, that he’ll get up and put on his clothes and disappear again and Ian won’t know when he’ll see him next. But Mickey just lays flat as his breathing returns to normal—doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move to leave, and Ian feels that _so fucked_ feeling in his chest.

Ian stares at Mickey’s face for a few more moments, before asking in a quiet, careful voice, “How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?” Mickey doesn’t even open his eyes.

“…your powers,” Ian fills in, cautiously, and Mickey’s eyes flash open and stare up at him, hard and defensive, like a spooked wild animal.

“The fuck do you mean?” Mickey’s voice is deadly quiet. “You think I was bit by some fucking radioactive spider or some shit?”

“Well, no.” Ian smiles a little bit. “Then you would have spider powers, which you don’t… Right?” Ian’s eyebrows come together quizzically, and Mickey snorts. It sounds amused, but it might also be because he thinks Ian is an idiot.

Maybe both.

“I was born with them,” Mickey finally answers, and his voice sounds far away, like he’s remembering something. Ian really wants to ask what, but he’s not sure how long this _Mickey actually answering questions thing_ is going to last, and he’s pretty sure that asking Mickey about his past (what is the childhood of a superhero even _like?_ ) is just going to shut everything down.

“What exactly are they?”

Mickey’s eyes flick back to Ian.

“Your powers,” Ian clarifies.

“Are you always so fucking chatty after you fuck? Jesus,” Mickey grumbles, pushing hair off his forehead and then leaving his palm there. “It’s not like they have names for this shit, right? Like I’m a fucking X-Men or something, like I fall into this neat little superpower category or some shit. Bullets bounce off me, knives don’t cut me, fire doesn’t burn me… Like I have super thick fucking skin, or like, a forcefield or something. I don’t fucking know.” Mickey’s voice sounds tense and strained, _frustrated_ , and Ian looks away for him.

He knows what it’s like to look at yourself and not understand what you’re seeing. Fuck, everyone who’s ever been a teenager has gone through that.

But with Mickey, it’s this whole other fucking level that Ian can't even begin to comprehend.

“So, what, you’re invincible or something? Like, you can’t die?” Ian looks up at the ceiling, the words coming out of his mouth too big for his mind to process.

“ _What?_ Fuck no. I came into your fucking room last night after getting hit by a car, and it fucking _hurt_. I just… I don’t know, man. I can take hits harder, I can hit harder. That’s the only way I know to explain it.”

“What if someone, like, shot you with a bazooka?”

Mickey gives him this incredulous, almost angry, look. Kind of like he thinks Ian is the biggest dumbass on the face of the earth.

“How the fuck would I know that?” Mickey asks, eyes still wide and critically judging, and it just makes Ian chuckle a little bit. “It’s not like I’ve tested it out. Anything higher than fucking standard police or idiot criminal status is unknown territory, all right? I just know that I’m bulletproof.”

“Nothing to lose, fire away, fire away,” Ian sing-songs softly.

“The fuck was that?”

“You know, like that song from years ago?” Ian badly hums a few bars, and Mickey is still staring at him like he’s from a different planet. “You shoot me down, but I won’t fall, I am titanium!” Ian sings, loudly and awfully, and Mickey actually whacks him ( _jesus fucking christ_ , that _hurts_ ) to get him to stop. But Ian still laughs it off, even as he rubs at his suddenly sore hip. “I’m guessing you don’t listen to a lot of popular music.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Mickey monotones with a roll of his eyes. Ian smiles at him.

“…that would be a good name,” he muses out loud.

“What?”

“Titanium. That should be your superhero name. I mean, it’s a lot better than the Masked Man, right?” Ian looks down at him, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t want some fucking faggy superhero name,” is Mickey’s response.

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have one, so you might as well pick a fucking cool one,” Ian counters. Mickey rubs his hand over his face and groans before he’s flipping onto his side.

“Can you please just shut the fuck up? You talk way too fucking much for this early in the morning.”

“I’m just saying—“ Ian’s words falter as Mickey forces his way between Ian’s thighs. “Mick—“

Mickey takes Ian’s soft cock into his mouth, and any and all words clog in the back of his throat before disappearing on a sharp gasp.

“So you _do_ have an off button,” Mickey mutters smugly, and Ian fists his hand in Mickey’s hair.

“Don’t fucking stop.”

Mickey is a surprisingly good listener.

*

Eventually, Mickey leaves, and Ian goes back to his life—back to homework, and school, and work. That anticipation rests in his bones, the constant wonder of when and where Mickey will turn up next, but Ian finds that he’s not too worried. When he’d come down Mickey’s throat and Mickey had got off just by rutting against the sheets (Ian has _so much_ laundry to do), Mickey had wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and looked Ian pointedly in the eye before saying, “You owe me.”

Ian’s pretty sure Mickey’s going to collect on that favor sooner rather than later.

When he goes into work on Sunday, there’s still chatter about the police ambush from Friday night, and the outcry from the public that had followed—both in the positive and negative. Ian finds he can’t stand around and listen too much, because he can feel the shit-eating grin on his face and doesn’t know how he can explain it.

That afternoon, Mickey prevents another bank heist, and Ian watches the coverage once more from the confines of the station. Hostage after hostage is interviewed, and Ian finds that he’s a lot more attentive to their answers than he had been the first time. Now, he’s curious about everything that happened—did Mickey get shot at? Stabbed? _What if the robbers had a bazooka?_

But there’s nothing like that.

However, Ian’s eyes widen and his mouth drops when one of the hostages says, “I went to thank him, the Masked Man, and he corrected me? He said his name was Titanium?”

The entire station goes _ballistic_ with that.

And Ian just stands in the middle of it, hand pressed over his smile, before he turns and goes to type up the minutes from that morning’s meeting. He hums that fucking song for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/98074149330/maybe-ill-be-bulletproof)


End file.
